Those were the words of my dad, Tommy Tucker, to his grandson, Caden as we made our way to our deer blind in complete darkness.

My dad and I have been hunting together for 33 years. I can remember drinking chocolate milk and eating cookies when he came to pick me up to take me hunting for the first time in kindergarten.

We hunted in Mason during those days. Now we hunt near Groom, where we chase free-ranging monster whitetails and mule deer in wide-open spaces.

Dad is now 80, and instead of me on his lap it’s his grandsons taking that spot. The time we spent together is irreplaceable. Hearing the stories that I have heard many times over never gets old.

Neither does watching the sun come up over a wheat field as the anticipation rises about what might appear when the darkness clears. That moment can’t be replaced.

This year seemed even more special.

“I had two things happen this year that I never thought I would see,” said Tommy Tucker.

“I had a great-grandson and turned 80 in the same year.”

I realize just how fortunate I am to still be hunting with my father, although the roles have definitely changed. I catch myself barking at dad when I think he is too loud, and of course I now see myself as the expert (even though he has taken many more deer than I have).

Our latest trip was like many of the others we have been on, long and hard hunts. After all these years we still deal with my mother griping at us when we come home empty-handed; she indeed holds us to a high standard.

The first three days of our recent four-day hunt we were flat-out skunked, but had seen a nice mule deer that had been hiding out in an unpicked cotton field. We quickly named him “Cotton Picker.”

The final morning of our hunt we had little action. Only a few does milled by on their way to a feeder. Mid-morning we decided we’d had enough and thought breakfast was a better option. But on one final skimming of the cotton field, I caught a reflection in my binoculars and I knew we had found the horns of ‘‘Cotton Picker.’’ The stalk was on.

Sneaking through a field with an 80 year-old man and a 7 year-old boy might be some of the toughest hunting anyone can do, but we slowly made our way through the cotton to what we thought was a manageable shot.

Breathing heavy, dad raised his .243 on his shooting sticks. I reminded him to take his time and squeeze the shot off, something he’d whispered in my ear for many years. The shot fired and the celebration began.

“I’ve hunted all my life and never killed a deer this big,” said Tommy Tucker.

I am blessed to be hunting with dad after all of these years. We have had some great trips. Now that I am raising my own sons to be hunters, I catch myself telling them the same stories over and over; the story of the hunt for ‘‘Cotton Picker’’ is most definitely now on the list.

And I’ll always remind them, as we make our way to the blind, to take time to stop and look at the stars.